“Fine. The word fine is a nothing word. It's a placeholder for another word. A better, stronger word. Like terrible, or revolting.”
“It could be in place of amazing or stupendous.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“Didn't think so.”
Sylvia left her chair and grabbed a soda out of the fridge. She had the refrigerator door nearly closed when she remembered her manners, and got Bill one too. She dropped it in his lap, as she passed, not bothering to ask if he wanted it. She had to find a way to get him out of her house without crushing him. She didn't want to spend the rest of the day feeling like a bitch. Part of her, if she was being honest with herself, almost wanted him to stick around, but she pushed those thoughts aside.
“Our date was a good date, Bill. If it was terrible or revolting, I would have gone home.”
“Maybe it was just the alcohol.”
“No, it's never just the alcohol. Liquor may make it easier to make wrong decisions, but only if you really wanted to make them anyway.”
Sylvia eyed the television remote, and saw a thin layer of dust covering it. How long had it been since she was actually home alone long enough to watch TV? “So, like I said,” she continued, “I'm really sorry for Melissa, but…”
“Go out with me again,” he said, stopping her from her rejection.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
His confidence seemed to be returning. His back was upright and he had moved to the edge of his chair.
“Bill, I…”
“Just one more. If it sucks, then you'll never hear from me again. I told you that I couldn't maintain my confidence for longer than one night. I've been on so many first dates these past years, and never any second ones. Either I didn't want to show my lack of mojo, or more often, just didn't like them that much. I liked you. Like you. I actually want to show you my real self.”
Part of her felt an obligation to Bill for what Melissa had put him through. That by itself was enough to deserve a second chance, but maybe there were other reasons. She did like him in a way. She didn't know in which way that was, but maybe she could figure it out. Truth was Sylvia had not been on a second date in recent memory either. Not one.
“Alright,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Be yourself. I'll be me. Keep it simple though, I'm not really looking for excitement. My life needs to take a chill pill for now. Take me to dinner again. Nothing after though. Not this time, OK?”
He smiled at her. She liked his smile.
“Tomorrow?” Bill asked, standing.
“Tomorrow,” she said, walking him to the door. Before she closed it, he looked back at her, and she could see the giddy glint in his eye.
TWENTY THREE
The hay bales were stacked twenty-four high at their peak. Harry had counted, more than once. His loafers would occasionally slip on the straw that lay underfoot, his worn soles not doing anything to help his traction. High up, there was a window where the ceiling made an upside down V. The morning sun showed that it was still doing its job with a single, wide beam that ended at Harry's feet. He followed the beam, watching the dust constellations swirl along the way.
A family of finches had made their home near the window, and they played in the light, darting in and out like children in a water sprinkler. Harry watched them for as long as he could. This view of the barn was quiet and beautiful. Picturesque.
He had no desire to turn back around.
Harry had arrived on the scene an hour before, having caught a ride from one of the local cops by the name of Jesse. Jesse was only twenty-two years old. He loved blonde girls and hip-hop music. On the drive out, he had been a sack of hysteria, anxious to see his first murder scene. Now, he was doubled over at the side of the barn, hugging a hay bale as though he would drown without it. His breakfast was puddled on the floor just a few steps away.
There had only been two local cops on the scene when they arrived, but now there were over a dozen. Some were skittering about like cockroaches, while others were standing around watching. Frank Gambon was one of the latter, and he gave Harry a nod of general disapproval. The barn floor was splattered with little yellow tents made of plastic, each one numbered as potential evidence. The tents reminded Harry of those he was assigned at fast food joints denoting his order number. It was as if fifty different insects had all ordered their super-sized value meals at the same time.
There was white tape on the ground in a misshapen circle surrounding a pool of coagulating blood. Harry could look out at the cops and knew right away which ones had smelled old blood before. He had always thought that new recruits should be made to suffer the stench for an hour or so before ever getting their badge and gun. Harry had smelled a lot of it, and it still made his nostrils tighten.
The former owner of the blood was Clyde Hefferman, proprietor of the Circle H ranch of which this barn was a centerpiece. He was currently hanging from a large metal hook twenty feet in the air. The hook had been put through his mouth and out his neck, and from this distance, Harry could also see several other wounds, most likely punctures made by a blood soaked rake found leaning against a wall. It would be impossible to tell the extent of the damage until they lowered him down.
The body was naked. The clothes had been removed, haphazardly folded, and now lay on a nearby workbench.
One of Hefferman's hired hands found the body and immediately called the police. Hefferman's wife was still in the main house, and had thankfully, not yet seen her husband's body. Their children no longer lived at home and would be contacted later.
The Blue Bloods were already on the scene, doing all the things they do. Harry was watching Love from the corner of his eye while he barked orders to the men. Orders that, mostly, were already being carried out.
The majority of being in charge was just forceful narration.
Love was busily snapping photo after photo. At one point, she had actually climbed the bales, nearly to the top, to get a bird's eye view with her camera. The finches sang their displeasure at her invasion, and Harry was not too thrilled about her being up there either. He had begged her to be careful, and he was proud of himself for that. He had expressed concern; a normal interaction between people that showed compassion, and he had not even broken a sweat.
“That's sweet, Harry,” she had said, “but I'll be fine.”
Most of the local cops were now standing aside, letting the Blues do their thing. This string of murders was the worst thing that had ever happened to their sleepy town, and nothing remotely close to it would probably ever happen again. This town must be all together horrified at the carnage, and thrilled to be able to say that they were there when.
This town.
What was this town called?
He had been here for nearly two weeks, and he simply couldn't remember where on earth he was. It was in Iowa, of that he was certain.
Oh, Harry, your attention to detail is unrivaled.
He tried to lie to himself; tell himself that he was so busy focusing on other important matters that the town name just didn't make the cut, but right away he knew that ship wouldn't sail.
Havorford. No wait, Heatherford. That was it.
No idiot, Heather Ford was the girl you took to the sixth grade dance.
As he tried to jog his memory, Love came down and stood next to him. She was close enough that their arms touched, and that was enough for him to forget the names of Tokyo, London, and New York City all at once.
“I think that I have all that I need. We can probably bring him down now,” she said.
Harry motioned to one of the local officers to lower the hook, but the man made no move until Frank nodded for him to do so. Even now, they didn't recognize his authority.
The track was earth shatteringly loud, and its metallic cacophony reverberated against the barn walls.
“What are you doing after this?” Harry asked Love timidly, eyes forward.
“What did you say?” she asked loudly, the noise far too strong for normal conversation.
“What are you doing later?” he asked, this time a little louder, though he still wasn't looking directly at her.
“I still can't hear you.”
“Do you want to get a drink after this?” He yelled, just as the hooked corpse came to a halt on the barn floor.
The barn was silent.
He stood stoically, unwilling and too embarrassed to look to see who had heard him. He was sure that no one could have missed it, but he hoped that some of them might attribute his question to friendly banter between co-workers.
His hopes were dashed when Nicky spoke. “There you go, Harry! Finally living.”
Slick spoke up with a childlike, “Wooooooooo!” Then he and the locals began to clap and cheer.
“Oh just stop it guys,” Love said, attempting to save him from further embarrassment. She leaned in close to him and whispered, “We'll talk about it later, OK?”
Harry nodded slightly, grateful that she had not rejected him out right in front of everyone. He told the others to get to work, though there was a crack in his voice.
Harry Bland: Super Stud.
With the body down at eye level, Love commenced taking photos, and things went back to normal. As normal as a murder scene gets, at any rate. Harry could see now that the body had sustained more wounds than he had previously ascertained. There were puncture marks on most of the skin, lined in angled rows. It looked like he was hit with the rake dozens, if not hundreds, of times. The wounds were erratic and had probably been inflicted quickly.
This wasn't Strawberries' normal meticulousness. Though his murders were all different, they were all done with purpose. Like pieces of a gory puzzle, each element was placed just the way that Strawberries had wanted. This body wasn't a puzzle; it was a pincushion.
“Hey,” Harry said to no one in particular, “have we found a strawberry yet?”
“Not yet,” Nicky answered.
Harry searched for the usual drawing. If it had not been found yet, then it must be somewhere further from the actual crime. As he searched, he stumbled on several splatters of blood that were not tagged for evidence and pointed them out. He worked in a circular pattern, eventually making his way to the smaller room at the rear of the barn.
The room was full of tools and general ranch equipment. A light bulb swung freely from the ceiling. If it once had a fixture, it was long gone. He opened the rear door and was surprised by how long a shadow the barn cast. It truly was an immense building. Harry stepped out and scanned the land behind the barn. Other than the tree line that began about a hundred yards or so away, there was nothing to see but grasshoppers.
It was when he turned to head back inside that he found it.
The drawing was bigger than any that had come before, and sloppily made. It looked as if it was drawn with an entire hand as opposed to just a finger. The outline was shaky and broken. It was rushed like the murder itself.
Harry reached up as high as he could to see if he could reach the top of the drawing. The tip of his middle finger was a good six inches below the painting's highest point.
Strawberries was a tall fucker, there's a clue for you, Harry.
Near the edge of the barn laid a bucket stained with old blood. Strawberries must have got what he needed and let the rest hit the floor.
Harry stood back and stared at the drawing. He could not quite pinpoint what, but something was off. Either this was a copycat killing, or Strawberries' mood had shifted. He was getting impatient for some reason, and for the first time, Harry had a glimmer of hope that maybe Strawberries would make a mistake.
Later, when the coroner had finished, the body had been carted away, and the Blues had collected all that they could, the barn was sealed. That is, flimsy yellow crime scene tape was put over the front and rear entrance in an X.
Jesse was waiting for him at his patrol car, and as Harry went to join him, he heard his name called.
“Harry!” Love yelled.
Harry met her halfway, eyes on his feet more than they were on her. He braced himself for the flattered, but no thanks speech that was sure to follow.
“Hey. I'm sorry, but I can't go out with you tonight.”
“It's OK, no worries,” he said, quickly turning away. He wanted to get out of there as fast as he could and find a nice pile of sand to bury his noggin in.
“No, Harry. Quit being stupid. I have to get the report done tonight remember? How about tomorrow night? Unless, of course, there's another corpse.”
“Oh. Sure,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Yes. We'll go out tomorrow. Without a corpse.”
“You're such a smooth talker Harry. And adorable,” she added, and then kissed his cheek before running back the other way.
Harry had no chance to reflect on what had just happened to him before Sheriff Gambon walked purposefully toward him, shouting loud enough for every-one to hear.
“Bland! I want to know what you're doing to stop…”
Harry raised his palm toward Frank, and the sheriff cut his words short.
“Go fuck yourself as hard as you can, Frank,” Harry said, then turning his back to the man, walked to Jesse's squad car.
This was one of the best days that Harry had had in a long damn time.
TWENTY FOUR
Shelly had been watching Harry Bland's door from her motel room window when she saw him rush out, still putting on his button shirt as he hastily made for a patrol car waiting in the lot.
Reacting on instinct, she told Jake she was heading out to get some things from the store, and then hurried out before he could ask any questions or make any requests. In her haste, she forgot her tape recorder, but she didn't think that she'd need it anyway.
She followed the patrol car, careful not to get too close. This wasn't her first tail, though this one made her feel differently. Wild, like a hunter.
When her prey turned down an old dirt road, she hesitated, knowing that it would be harder to remain unseen. She chanced it, but kept further back. There were times that she could not see the car at all, for bends in the road or thick trees. At one point, she was convinced that she had lost them, that they had turned down one of the side roads she'd passed, but then the telltale blue and red light show appeared over a hill.
Shelly drove past all of the police vehicles as inconspicuously as possible. It was probably rare for anyone to be driving these back country roads, and she didn't want to stick out like the Devil on Sunday in her rental car. She passed by quickly, trying to conceal her face, but not so fast so as to draw attention. When she felt she was far enough away, she parked the car and began the long walk back.
She walked through a thick wood as fast as she could without twisting an ankle. She tried to ignore the scratches that her body was sustaining as she passed through branches and brambles, the bruises she was getting from climbing over logs and rocks, and the bites she was taking from the hungry, forest dwelling bugs.
Abruptly, the trees stopped, as though halted by an invisible barrier, and on the other side was wheat; a vast field full of wheat that stood as high as her chest. Sprinkled throughout the field were taller, heartier stalks that looked down on their shorter cousins. Beyond, she could see the erratic spinning of the police lights, but they were still far off.
She trudged through the light brown expanse, careful to keep her footing on the uneven clods of dirt below. She occasionally reached out to snap the necks of the taller stalks. Sweat slid into the scratches on her arms, and stung worse than the bug bites, and now, tiny pieces of grain and grass fell into her clothing and made her itch to a degree that no amount of scratching could satiate. She wondered if this was all worth it.
When she was close enough to see, but not close enough to be seen, she stopped. She bent down, but let her head crest the wheat line like a lion on the savannah. She watched, but there wasn't much to see; only police
going in and out of an enormous barn.
So, she waited.
Jaded, she cleared just enough of the wheat to have a place to sit, and sat down. The blistering sun passed overhead and the clock in her mind continued to tick. The grasshoppers were in abundance, and the sound of their legs as they leaped seemed to merge with the heat into a single, noisy inferno. More than once she started to leave, but every time, her stubbornness set her butt back down on the earth.
When the afternoon sun morphed into twilight, threatening to vanish behind the trees to the west, she finally heard enough commotion to get back up and see what was happening.
The police were leaving. She even caught a glimpse of Harry Bland getting into a patrol car. One by one, they left in a trail, their lights still on. She watched as the parade turned the corner in the distance, and then there was silence again on the farm.
She was hesitant to rise above the wheat. Even when she was out of the field, crossing the dirt road, and heading toward the barn, she crouched low. Only when she reached the barn's shadow did she stand upright again.
The barn doors were large and solidly made, and there was yellow tape crisscrossed at the front. The doors opened inward, so it was a simple thing to duck under the tape and enter.
When she closed the door and turned around, what little sunlight the air still had was gone. She considered leaving the door open so that she could at least see a little, but thought better of it. There was always a chance that someone may come back.
The dark was heavy. While in the light, it's easy to ignore the weight of the air, but when sight is removed and other senses are heightened, it can be felt. She could feel it now, pushing down on her, as if she were carrying the barn's ebony breath in her arms.
She reached in front of her, pushing against the dark as it pushed in on her. She soon laid her hands on what could only be bales of hay, and she followed them like a wall. They seemed to be everywhere, and she had to climb up on them to get further into the barn. It was like a three dimensional maze she was traversing blind. Twice, her foot fell through a crack between the bales. Her only consolation was that she was already covered in a sinister itch, so the straw couldn't make it much worse, though some invaded her lungs enough to make her cough incessantly. She tried to swallow as much of her noise as she could.
Strawberries Page 12